


If Only The Past Would Rest

by Reddwarfer



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Choices, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Frottage, Future Fic, Kissing, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Post-Divorce, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddwarfer/pseuds/Reddwarfer
Summary: In 1987, Bill finds himself back in the States and, somehow, finds his way back to Mike.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	If Only The Past Would Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salvadore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvadore/gifts).



> Dear Salvadore, I really loved the prompt you had for IT. I hope you enjoy this.

No, I don't know where I'm goin'  
But I sure know where I've been  
Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday  
And I've made up my mind  
I ain't wasting no more time  
Though I keep searchin' for an answer  
I never seem to find what I'm lookin' for  
Oh Lord, I pray you give me strength to carry on  
'Cause I know what it means  
To walk along the lonely street of dreams  
\--Whitesnake

Senny's Bar, 1987

Bill found himself outside Senny's on Thursday. He walked inside and took in the now familiar décor. A moderately nicer dive than three bars he'd passed on the way there. It wasn't a gay bar, per se, but it was _friendly_. You could buy a man a drink, and while he might not let you pick him up, he wouldn't punch you for it. The drinks cost a bit more, but you didn't have to worry about getting your lights knocked out by a bearded asshole in a dirty baseball cap.

After getting his drink at the bar—some fruity thing he'd pointed at on a list of specials written on a blackboard—he'd made his way to a little two person table near the wall. He sat down with a sigh and wondered, yet again, what in hell he was doing.

The television anchored above the bar had some red-headed comedian he sort of recognized loudly doing some gag routine. Bill looked back down at his drink, following a drop of condensation with his thumb. He'd been back in the states for six months, roaming aimlessly across the country. He'd not stayed in any one place longer than two weeks. Currently, this was day five.

He'd found the bar on the second day, picking the first place that didn't have a sea of Ford pick up trucks in the parking lots with those charming flag bumper stickers. He'd come back because the drinks were good and there were no bugs crawling around when he needed to use the bathroom.

Bill sipped at his drink, hoping the chyron would display the Red Sox scores. He wouldn't have minded catching the game itself, but they were too far out of New England for the game to air on the local network.

He'd spent most of the early afternoon in a local cafe doing his best to write enough to appease his literary agent, who mostly like spent all his Bill Denbrough-related energy hoping he'd come back to his senses and settle down somewhere permanently. Instead, Bill just smiled politely whenever they'd talk on the phone, even if the man couldn't see it, and tried to pretend he wasn't having some sort of second mid-life crisis.

After all, it wasn't whatever had happened the last time he'd been in the states that led to his and Audra's accident. It wasn't the doctors calmly explaining how he was somehow triggering her panic attacks and nightmares. It wasn't the pitying looks from her family and friends when they'd gently, then not so gently, encouraged him to do the right thing. It wasn't even the divorce which had been met with relief from everyone around him. _Not him, though, never from him._

Audra hadn't contacted him once since the papers went through. Bill hadn't known why he'd expected otherwise. Four months since he'd last seen her went by with nothing but his regrets keeping him company and then, finally, there she'd been, walking down the street. He could still feel the ghost of how his stomach had clenched. He'd cast around his brain desperately trying to figure out what to say, how to say it. Then she'd been just two feet in front of him, her eyes flicked over him once, and then away, and she'd walked on by him.

He'd felt cold then, felt cold now, and he'd turned and watched as her figure got further and further away from him. Bill hadn't said anything, hadn't called after her. Hadn't gone after her. Hadn't done a goddamned thing except stare after her until he could no longer see her. It hadn't been an awkward look of someone not wanting to chat with an ex-flame. It hadn't been angry or dismissive. It'd been the look you gave to someone you'd never seen before and never planned to see again.

Audra, a woman he'd made love to, had been married to, had fought with and laughed with and loved with, had looked at him and seen a stranger. He hadn't slept that night. The look replaying over and over in his mind, trying to find some shred of emotion for him in her eyes, even disdain. He'd gotten on a flight to Boston a week later.

Six months had passed and Bill still roamed around, as if trying to outrun the devil.

Two-thirds into his second drink, Bill noticed _him_. Seated at the bar, nursing a beer, an attractive black man sat, seemingly engrossed in an entertainment news story about some famous fashion designer's upcoming second wedding.

Bill had just been about to look away when the man turned his gaze from television and their eyes met. Something flipped in his stomach, fluttered in his chest. His skin vibrated with energy. A wave of déjà vu so intense came over Bill that he gripped the table to not fall off his chair.

He couldn't make himself look away, couldn't even blink, for fear that even taking his eyes off him for a second would allow him to disappear. Still, he found himself surprised when the man dropped money down on the bar, grabbed his drink, a napkin, and made his way over to where Bill sat.

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked, and Bill swallowed thickly as he nodded. The man had a nice voice, pleasant, the sort he'd kill to have recording his audiobooks.

Once seated, the man reached across the table, offering his hand. Bill shook it. “My name is—” and Bill mouthed the name along with the man, “Mike.”

Bill hoped the man—Mike—didn't notice. He hadn't the first inkling how he'd explain such a thing, the way he knew this man's name, the way he knew all his wandering had been leading to this exact moment. “I'm Bill,” he replied, smiling in what he hoped came across as charming and not creepy or weird.

Mike grinned at him, then, looking younger, brighter with the smile. Bill took another sip of his drink, more watery than before with the ice mostly melted, and tried not to feel like a teenager on a first date. His face must have betrayed his distaste, because Mike nodded toward his glass, and said, “Can I get you another?”

The pull Bill felt toward Mike hadn't lessened since he'd first laid eyes on the man. Mike seemed to be around his age, attractive, but not so much that he felt intimidated by it, and maybe, just maybe, Mike was the _friendly_ sort.

“No, but thank you,” Bill demurred. If _that_ was on the table, any more drinks and he'd need crane and a prayer to lift up anything. He hadn't often done more beyond looking at men very often, and only once since the divorce. But everything in him yearned for this, tonight, with Mike.

Mike's smile didn't lessen with Bill's polite drink refusal, if anything it grew more tender, intimate. “Tell me about yourself, Bill.”

~*~

August 1958, Derry

Bill lay back on the grass, staring up at the sky. He did that a lot, these days. Head too filled with too many thoughts. Eddie lay next to him, fiddling with his inhaler. Both of them had debated the relative merits of at least a half-dozen things they could be doing during the last days of summer, before classes began again. Neither went beyond a “we could do that” or “what about this?”

Something had been plaguing him lately. It sat in the corner of his mind, unvoiced, and he'd no idea how to even talk about it.

“Eh-eh-eddie?” he said, not quite knowing what he planned on saying.

Eddie's hands stilled, and he turned to face him. “Yeah, Bill?”

“H-h-have you eh-eh-ever th-thought something yuh-you know you sh-shouldn't?” Bill asked, he looked away from Eddie's face and back at the sky.

“How do you mean, Bill?” Eddie asked, not like he didn't understand the question, but more like a request for more detail.

Bill glanced again at Eddie. He tried to think about how to phrase it, how to say, 'Mike smiled at me the other day and I got the same tingle in my belly like I did when Bev kissed my cheek.' “Ju-just I don't know huh-how to suh-say it.”

A flash of something knowing flitted over Eddie's face. “Sometimes. Everyone does, don't they?”

“Wuh-what sh-should yu-you do wuh-when you do th-think stuff?” Bill asked, then, because that was the crux of what he wanted to know. Anything kept in your thoughts alone was safe enough, but acting on it? That was something else entirely.

Eddie didn't respond immediately, but not as if ignoring him so much as trying to gather his thoughts first. Bill let him. He couldn't imagine having this conversation with anyone else of their group. The idea of talking to Richie about it made him cringe.

“I think,” Eddie said slowly, sounding older, more mature than his age in this one moment, “sometimes, you have to ignore those thoughts. Not because they're wrong, but because not everyone will understand them. There's a saying, right? The path of least resistance. Sometimes, it's better to just stay on the path of least resistance.”

Bill swallowed thickly. “I g-get it.”

“Hey, Bill,” Eddie said then, patting the top of Bill's hand with the one not gripping his inhaler. “It'll be okay.”

“Yeah?” Bill asked, turning his hand over, palm up. Eddie let his hand rest on top for a moment, before took a deep breath, and let their fingers twine together. “Yuh-you shuh-shuh-sure about th-that?”

“I'm sure,” Eddie replied. Then, he turned to face the sky again, and Bill did the same. They stayed there, silently contemplating the clouds and everything until they had to go home for dinner. They never spoke about it or that day ever again.

~*~

Not the cheapest motel, but close, 1987

“I hadn't intended to pick someone up, today,” Bill confessed as he and Mike walked down the path toward Bill's motel room. He immediately regretting saying it as soon as it came out his mouth. “Not that I'm disappointed or anything.”

“You want to know why I came over to you,” Mike said by way of response. Bill nodded as he fished his motel key out of his pocket. Mike didn't continue speaking immediately, however, and seemed as if searching for the right words to explain himself. Like, he hadn't quite known what he'd intended to say when he offered the information in the first place.

“I felt like,” Mike started, before stopping again soon after. “I saw you and it was like I had no choice but to come closer. Like it was—”

“Kismet,” Bill finished. Mike nodded. “Yeah.”

Bill unlocked the door, and ushered Mike in first, then shut and locked the door behind him. He hadn't noticed anyone _noticing them_ but you could never be too careful. If he ended up on the news as a victim of a gay-bashing, his agent really would kill him.

“Hey,” Mike said, coming closer. He put his hand gently on Bill's shoulder. “No need to be nervous. We can just have that coffee you offered me. I've never been a man to turn down lukewarm instant motel coffee.”

Laughing, despite himself, Bill let himself move closer to Mike, to put his arms around Mike's waist, to kiss Mike's lips. The last time he looked at himself naked in the mirror, he tried with everything in him not to hate what saw. Tonight, with each piece of him bared as Mike stripped him down, he felt hotter, wanted, _seen_. He didn't try to shut off the lights or hurry under the sheets to cover himself. Bill let Mike walk him over to the bed, let Mike push him down on it, let Mike touch every inch of him. Welcomed every touch like a dry sponge soaking up water.

They pressed desperately against each other, like trying to crawl into each other's skin. The finesse of kissing got lost somewhere along the third minute of frantic rutting instead just panted against each other's mouths. It lasted barely longer than those first fumbling experiences of his youth, not quite knowing anything about what he was doing except the want thrumming under his skin and the instinctual thrusting of his hips. Now, in his forties, he'd exhibited the same level of prowess and didn't give a damn about it.

Mike kissed his shoulder, grabbed at the skin at his hips and came against him and Bill followed after him, helplessly.

“Sh-shit,” he panted out, flopping down with his back to the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Then, suddenly, unwanted, he remembered. And remembered. _And remembered_. All of it. The Summer of 58, his brother, Neibolt Street, the Losers' Club, his goddamned stutter. 1985, Stanley and Eddie and every goddamned moment he'd lost. All of it. It didn't come back slowly, easily. Instead, it punched into him in one bright, unwelcome moment. He stared at Mike uncomprehendingly and saw the same muted horror that must be on his own face reflected back at him on Mike's.

“I—I,” he started, but didn't even know what to say.

Mike swallowed, reached his hand out slowly, as if fearing that Bill would pull away, and threaded their fingers together when he found his touch welcomed. “Do you...do you think it means,” Mike stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath.

“That we're needed again?” Bill asked. He remembered the eggs they destroyed. Did they miss one? Was this something new entirely that required the sort of sentinels they’d been?

With a quick jerk of his head, Mike nodded. “Yeah, when I started forgetting, I assumed it meant we weren't needed anymore.”

“Yeah, I did, too.” Bill slumped down, resting his head on Mike's shoulder. Now, they had all their lifetime of shared memories sitting between them, naked, like they were. As if they'd never parted. Were they always destined to find each other, like this?

He didn't mention Audra, the divorce, and Mike didn't ask. He didn't want Mike to think himself a rebound for Bill or anything other than two people finally finding their way to each other after too many years and circumstances keeping them apart.

Mike pressed a kiss to his temple and sighed, “I never thought I'd be here again. Keeping watch like a lighthouse keeper. At least, this time I wouldn't be alone.”

Bill sensed, then, a choice lay before them. They could take up the mantle again. They could keep watch for whatever might come. Or, they could just not. Just become the people they thought they were at the beginning of the evening.

“I don't know if I can do this again,” Bill said in a fit of ruthless honesty. He knew what he should say, should do, but every inch of him violently opposed it. He'd already given so much. He kissed Mike again, then, desperately, apologizing for the craven part of him that just wanted, for once, to have a normal life.

“But, don't we have to?” Mike replied. Duty weighed heavily on him, on both of them. An unwanted presence beside them, curled up with them in bed.

' _Do we really?'_ , Bill wanted to ask, but didn't. Instead, he pulled Mike on top of him, kissed him, begged without words for another few minutes without the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

Mike, gorgeous, beautiful, perfect Mike, kissed him back with a hunger that surprised him. Gave Bill the reprieve he needed. Gave Bill everything he'd been craving for so long. And that would have to be enough.

~*~

_Epilogue: Bill Denbrough Beats The Devil (III)_

The bustle of the Farmers' Market always made Bill smile. Different stalls peppered the normally empty field, each filled with different wonders to discover. It was the last week of summer, so the normally sedate Market had a live band, some games, a fried dough stall and other late-summer delights.

“Hey, Bill,” Mike greeted as he rejoined him as he walked down the central path. “I got that honey and maple syrup you wanted. Did you manage to snag the soap?”

“Yeah,” Bill said, lifting his bag. “They only had two left. We got lucky.”

Mike grinned. They walked along, stopping at a few stalls for veggies, fruit, and a bag of kettle corn.

They walked by a couple bickering lightheartedly over apples. _“Grannysmiths are better in pie, Ben.” “Bev, have you ever had a pie made with Cortland apples? I think not. Otherwise, you wouldn't be talking about Grannysmiths."_ And a few kids ran by with newly won toys.

At the game stalls, they found one where you knocked the bottles down with a baseball. Each of the bottles were decorated with little imps and devils. The stuffed animals hung above the stall, begging to be brought home by suckers with too much money and too little sense, Bill turned to Mike with manic grin on his face, and said, “Bet you I can get you a prize.”

“Bill,” Mike said, exasperated, “these games are rigged. You know that. I know that.”

Bill put his money down on the stall. He gripped one of the baseballs in his hand, tossing it up and back once. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

He reared his arm back and threw.


End file.
